Homily: Saturday, 1st Week in Ordinary Time - Year 2

Readings: 1 Sam 9:1-4,17-19; 10:1 Ps 21; Mk 2:13-17

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In Rome, not far from the touristy Piazza Navona, is the church of San Luigi dei Francesi (St. Louis of the French). In one of its side chapels are several paintings by Caravaggio depicting events in the life of St. Matthew. They’re all masterpieces but one is especially wonderful: “The Call of Matthew.”

Caravaggio: The Call of Mattthew

The painting depicts the same scene Mark describes in today’s Gospel passage: the call of Levi, the tax collector, a man you and I know better as Matthew. Caravaggio depicts an indoor scene, with Matthew seated at his money table, surrounded by a group of his well-dressed associates. Unlike these others, Jesus is barefoot, as if His simplicity and holiness separate Him from everyone else in the scene. Peter stands beside Jesus.

Although the room is rather dark, a beam of light appears to extend from Jesus, who is pointing directly at Matthew. And Matthew? Seated there with a questioning look on his face, he points his finger as well, but at himself, as if to say, “Who me? You’re calling me?” We seem to sense that Matthew was surprised by this call from our Lord.

Jesus had just called four fisherman -- Simon, Andrew, James and John – and I suspect they, too, were skeptical of this latest choice, the tax collector. After all, the people had nothing but contempt for tax collectors, who not only worked for the despised Roman rulers, but were also known for enriching themselves through a form of legal extortion.

But isn’t it remarkable? Matthew didn’t hesitate. Indeed, he responded immediately. As Mark tells us, “He got up and followed Jesus.” How different from the call of the future King Saul we heard in today’s reading from 1^st Samuel. Matthew and Saul both respond to God’s call, and both will stray. But one repents in faith and becomes apostle and evangelist, while the other continues in his obstinate rejection of God’s will.

Mark then takes us to Matthew’s house, where Jesus and the disciples join the tax collectors and others for a meal. The Pharisees, of course are scandalized that Jesus, this reputed holy man, would associate with these public sinners. But those who consider themselves holier than others are always scandalized, aren’t they?

How does Jesus respond?

“Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners” [Mk 2:39].

Indeed, you and I should love and cherish these words because we’re the sinners he’s talking about. How did Paul put it to the Romans: 

“…for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” [Rom 3:23]. 

Six months ago, I had my semi-annual meeting with my physician, a man I think the world of. He informed me that, despite my age and all my aches and pains, I was doing OK, and was probably good for another six months as long as I do as he tells me. Hopeful reassurance indeed. I guess I’ll find out next week when I meet with him once more.

But in Jesus we have a divine physician who promises us, not six months of health, but eternal life.

Brothers and sisters, that He came to call sinners should fill us with hope. As Jesus reminds us, to be a sinner is to be sick, sick spiritually. It’s an illness for which only He has the cure. But we’re called to celebrate that cure and to carry it to others.

Sometimes, though, as a Church, I think we spend an awful lot of our time and resources preaching and teaching and evangelizing the already converted – to the righteous, as Jesus called them.

Now, I know we can’t ignore those who are faithfully following the Way. But how present are we to others, to those who really need to hear the Gospel message? How present are we to those locked in their sinfulness?

It’s easy to fall into the trap of the Pharisees and avoid those who have drifted far away from God, those who believe they have no hope because they’ve never heard God’s saving Word or experienced His healing touch.

Maybe that’s what you and I should do today, shine a little beam of light, the promise of salvation, on another trapped in darkness.

A Story of Success, Failure, and Salvation

Years ago, an acquaintance — let’s just call him Fred (not his real name) — died rather suddenly, the result, as I recall, of a brain embolism. Fred, a financial wizard of some repute, was considered, by most human standards, very successful. His expertise in the confusing and challenging area of international finance landed him an influential position at a major financial institution. His reputation grew, his expertise was sought, so he decided to start his own consulting firm providing financial and organizational advice and direction to companies hoping to expand their international business. Instantly successful, he opened a Manhattan office and even maintained a small apartment in the city which he used when work was especially demanding. Fred, his wife, and their two teenagers lived in a large home in an upscale New York suburb. They vacationed in all the best places, and the kids went to the best schools. Yes, indeed, Fred enjoyed a very good life. Well...it would have been a good life, had he actually enjoyed it. If you had asked those who thought they knew Fred well to describe him using one word, I’m sure most would have responded with, “angry.” 

Fred and I were both consultants and first met when we happened to be assisting the same company at the same time. Our work, of course, was very different. Fred showed his clients how they could make tens of millions by expanding internationally, while I provided needed training for front-line managers and sales and support people. Occasionally I also offered some customer-focus direction. Fred got paid very big bucks, while I got paid. We were both happy...well, I was anyway.

I referred to Fred as an “acquaintance” because our few meetings had always been in business situations, and we certainly weren’t friends. I suspect Fred had few, if any, real friends, something that become more apparent over time. The last time we met was a dinner Fred and I shared in the restaurant of the hotel in which we were both staying. For once he seemed quite pleasant. For whatever reason he was unusually talkative that evening and far more revealing than ever before. Perhaps he’d concluded I was no threat. Anyway, for several hours, over dinner and drinks, we talked about of many things. Fred told me about growing up as an only child in a rural Pennsylvania community. His dad was a heavy equipment operator and his mom taught elementary school. 

I can’t recall how or why, but at some point the subject of religious belief arose. He told me his father was Lutheran and his mother Jewish, so “religion wasn’t something we talked about. It was pretty much avoided, so I suppose I’m agnostic.” His family wasn’t poor but neither were they wealthy. He said he had always envied those with money and decided he would find a way to join their ranks. He had some memorable lines; for example, “Education actually became my religion, the path to the salvation I hoped for.” He studied hard, earned scholarships, and in graduate school chose a challenging field in high demand. His was a planned success. In his words, “My work is my life, and my life is my work.”

At some point that evening, when I asked him about his family, he responded oddly by saying only, “I take care of them, so they’re happy enough.” He then changed the subject and began to describe the weaknesses of the client company management that had hired us both that week. The occasion was a company-wide series of meetings. I would conduct about a week of customer focus training for the company’s field engineers, while Fred would work with the management team, helping them implement the plan he had developed for their fledgling international operations. As he spoke to me about their lack of vision, he grew more irritated and more sarcastic. I suppose my expression of surprise tipped him off, for he stopped suddenly and laughed. “As you can tell, I don’t suffer fools gladly.” Indeed he didn’t, but I knew he was wise enough not to display his irritation in the client’s presence. And I knew he trusted me, knowing I would never reveal his true feelings to those he served. 

It was my turn to change the subject. “Fred, you said your family was happy, but how about you? You’ve worked hard. You’re certainly successful. You’ve just published a book. Quite honestly, though, you don’t seem very happy. What are you hoping for in this life you’ve been given?” 

The question obviously surprised him, but Fred was an intelligent man and far more introspective than I’d expected. “An interesting question,” he said, “but with no easy answer — the kind of question I’d usually avoid. I’ve never thought of my life as a gift. You’re getting theological on me, aren’t you?” He raised a hand to stop me from responding and added, “Let’s just leave it at that. You’ve given me something to think about, and that’s always a good thing.”

I never saw Fred again. When I returned home, I sent him a copy of Peer Kreeft's book, Making Sense Out of Suffering. It had been published just a few years before and for some reason I thought Fred would benefit from it. I suppose I saw his anger as a symptom of a suffering soul. He responded with a brief, rather cryptic note: "Thanks for the book -- a lesser gift, but it's led me to think of a greater one. We'll see. - Fred"

Fred died about a year later, but It was some weeks before I heard the news. I believe he was in his mid-50s at the time, probably ten years my senior. I can't explain why, but I felt compelled to call his wife, a woman I had never met, to express my condolences. After a few explanatory comments, she said, "Oh! You're the one who sent the book. It really had an impact on Fred.” I didn’t pursue that comment but just told her I would pray for her and her children, and would also pray for Fred. She thanked me for that.

So often, as we struggle through life’s ups and downs, we mistakenly assume only wealth and success can bring the happiness we all seek. Fred was perhaps a perfect example of this fruitless search, a man who had achieved much in the eyes of the world and yet was demonstrably unhappy. I sensed he had reached a turning point, a realization that life pointed to something greater than the material rewards he had actively pursued. Our loving, merciful God offers His gift of faith to all of us, and does so repeatedly in ways to which we are most likely to respond. Our task is to recognize the offering, the wonder of this gift, and to respond in thanksgiving and love. I pray that Fred, before God called him to eternity, had come to understand and accept God’s gift of life as “the greater” gift.